Steady
by Jabberwockette
Summary: "You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady." All together now... one, two, three, d'awwwww. (An interlude between S4 and S5.)
1. Chapter 1

(Whoops, this little thing has been sitting on my hard drive for months. I'm way late to this particular party, but what's five or six months among friends. Can I promise there will be any more? Nope. Can I promise there won't? Nope.)

_"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."_

* * *

They were walking, hand in hand, along the beach.

The sand beneath his feet shifted as the water rolled in and rolled out, the seaweed tickling his toes under the gentle waves. He was lightheaded, happier than he could remember feeling in an age — a touch giddy and precisely the _opposite_ of steady, if he was being honest with himself, which he almost certainly wasn't.

She let go of his hand in order to reach in and fish something out of the surf, hiking her skirts a bit higher to prevent them dipping into the water as she bent down. He purposefully turned his gaze to the horizon, hands behind his back in the stance of eternal patience that was second nature to him, until she had straightened again.

She rinsed the object lightly in the water and admired it briefly, then turned and handed the small, perfect sea shell to him with a coy smile.

"There. Something to remind you that there can be beauty even in defeat."

He accepted it warily. "I never said I didn't _want_ to go to the seaside, Mrs. Hughes. I simply thought that since the staff doesn't get out much beyond an occasional trip to a local fair, London could provide them with somewhat more… cultural depth. I clearly overestimated their interest."

"Well, I hope you're not too disappointed."

He studied the delicate little shell for a moment, holding it between thumb and forefinger, then met her eyes once more.

"How could I possibly be disappointed in the face of such beauty?"

He tucked the shell into his vest pocket, and slipped his hand back into hers. "It will help me to feel steady when I can't hold your hand."

The radiant smile he received in reply, he thought, was worth a touch of unsteadiness.

They walked on.


	2. Chapter 2

_Getting a lot of mileage out of that little seashell. There's at least one more still in this._

* * *

He arrived back at Downton as he nearly always did, a day ahead of the family, with the luggage. The remainder of the Season had flown by, but he was still relieved to be home.

Mrs. Butte had returned to Grantham House a week after the staff outing to Brighton. The petite, affable woman was a ball of energy. They got on perfectly well, but had had little time to chat informally during the years she had worked at Grantham House. She deferred to his advice on matters involving the female staff who travelled to London for the season, and she handled her seasonal maids well. Though she mostly stayed at Grantham House during the season, she steadfastly went home on her half-days to, in her words, "make sure Mr. Butte hasn't starved to death or burnt the house down." Carson had always found her to be remarkably competent, considering she didn't do the job year-round. He had certainly never found fault with her work.

But this year he couldn't help but compare her energetic, constant-moving busyness to Mrs. Hughes' calming, sure presence. On the surface, there was no good reason for it — Grantham House ran equally well with either woman at the helm, whatever their style of management. But it had been a rare treat for him to have Mrs. Hughes there, even if only for a brief time. The last time she'd been there was before the war, the year they hired Mrs. Butte. It felt like a different life.

Grantham House had never felt like 'home' to him, and he tried not to think about why, this year, it had felt noticeably _homier_.

Tried, and failed.

_Times are changing, Charlie. Everything is shifting under your feet. Is it so bad to need someone to help keep you steady?_

He took off his hat, slung his overcoat over his arm, straightened his tie, and reached into his vest pocket, where he felt the small, cool seashell. A deep breath, and he stepped inside. The main hallway downstairs was already bustling with the arrival of the luggage. He could hear Daisy humming in the kitchen. The smell of baking bread filled the air. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply once more.

Elsie Hughes stepped out of her sitting room as he opened his eyes, her smile causing her eyes to crinkle with happiness.

"Welcome home, Mr. Carson."

_I'm home._


	3. Chapter 3

It was a light evening. Only Mr. Branson and Lady Edith were upstairs — she had a tray in her room, and he had dinner at the pub. Carson suspected that was because Branson didn't want to antagonize him now that he had returned; he knew the lad sometimes joined the staff downstairs for dinner while the family was away, more so when he himself was gone with the family, and that Mrs. Hughes encouraged it. That was perfectly fine with him.

Carson was content to pretend he knew less than he did, as long as he didn't have to deal with the fallout in-person. He would even admit to a grudging respect for the lad since Lady Sybil's death _(his heart still clenched to think of her, his littlest Lady, truly nothing could be worse than that night)_, but he would still take the small victories for order and propriety where he could.

At the moment, though, Tom Branson was not the main concern occupying his thoughts. He'd assumed she meant her sitting room when she mentioned looking forward to their evening sherry earlier, given that his pantry was usually in considerable disarray the day he returned from London. This year was no exception. Not finding her in her sitting room, though, he returned to his pantry.

He saw it the moment he entered. The oak leaf was in the middle of his desk, a small, delicate seashell deliberately placed on it as a paperweight.

_Of course._ She had collected up several that day in the surf, not only the one she had given to him._  
_

He smiled fondly, placed the decanter and two cordial glasses on a tray, and, with a small folding table tucked under his arm, made his way outside toward the bench under the large oak tree in the far corner of the back lawn.

* * *

She was exactly where he knew she would be.

He had first come across her here on a spring afternoon half-day, several months after she'd arrived at Downton as Head Housemaid. He remembered critiquing her choice of reading material (something by Poe, it had been, if he remembered correctly?), even if he couldn't fault her choice of how and where she chose to spend her few precious off hours. She had been more than happy to debate with him — and with a healthy dose of cheek even then — about the merits of an occasional bit of well-crafted gothic horror. She'd seen through his facade from the start, forming the foundation of their long working relationship based on a deep mutual respect.

Today, she saw him coming across the lawn and set down her book. He made a mental note to determine what she was reading later.

"I got your message."

"So you did, I see."

She watched patiently as he made a small show of setting out the folding table and pouring their drinks before settling down beside her on the bench. He raised his glass to her in silent salute.

"Goodness, such service." Her eyes were full of mirth. "Is this entirely proper, Mr. Carson, drinking sherry outdoors while watching the sun set?"

"I seem to recall I have been recently informed that we can afford to live a little."

"Well, maybe just this once," she countered mercilessly. She took another sip, savouring it for a moment. "Goodness, this does taste different drinking it outdoors, doesn't it? It's surprising how something like that can affect the flavour."

He quirked a half-smile. "Indeed. And as you have reminded me in the past, it's perhaps fortunate that I am not a Gentleman. I suspect this wouldn't taste half as good otherwise."

"Since you put it like that, perhaps we should make this a regular thing."

"I'll see what I can do," he replied, with mock solemnity.

There was no house business to discuss — it was a rare quiet night indeed, with most of the family and a number of the staff still away. Madge would see to Lady Edith, and Mr. Branson had been clear that he would not be ringing for the rest of the evening. As they drank in companionable silence, Mrs. Patmore's voice floated through his thoughts; _All women need someone to show a bit of interest now and then, preferably in a manner that is not entirely proper._ A contended sigh escaped him.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Carson?"

He did not look at her as he quietly moved a hand closer, palm up, resting on the stone bench beside her. After only a brief moment of hesitation, he felt her hand slip into his. He released the breath he'd been holding and his fingers closed lightly around hers.

"It is, actually. Everything is very much all right. Yes, I would have to say everything is…" he trailed off.

"Steady?"

He turned to her then, their eyes meeting, feeling the soft pressure of her hand in his.

"That's just the word, Mrs. Hughes, yes. Very _steady_."

She leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. "I wouldn't get used to it."

"Why, do you know something that I don't?" A moment of wary alarm passed over his features, but he relaxed when he saw the twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh, almost certainly, Mr. Carson. But just now, I was speaking in the broader sense. The world is changing, after all."

"Ah. Yes. Well. For now, though…" He turned to take in the sunset one more. Took a small sip, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "…it's good to be home."


End file.
